Driving Would Be Nice

Until this last month, I haven't missed my truck. I hadn't even missed driving. Long ago I successfully transitioned into the segment of world population dependent on public transportation and their own feet. My vehicle became just another one of the once-considered necessities of life left lost on the other side of the Pacific along with high definition television, DVR, canned chilli, good beer, pick-up basketball games and speaking quickly, barely moving my lips. Sure, I derive an occasional glint of satisfaction knowing that I have contributed my part in curbing carbon emissions, but really, everything I need is in walking distance anyway. School/work is three minutes away by foot, the bank five, the gym six and the grocery store seven or eight depending on how long crossing light takes and how heavy the grocery bag is. Life is good. Life was easy. Life was uncomplicated.

Then the baby came along and the simplest tasks that involve leaving the apartment turn into chokingly long, energy draining affairs of slow burning rage. For example: a visit to the hospital for a scheduled check-up (the baby has had three and Sami has had one so about one a week on average to now) includes the following: feeding before we leave, so that she doesn't fuss on the way there (up to an hour depending on much of a spaz she wants to be on the breast); getting her into the Moby wrap (10 minutes to figure out the damn thing, another 10 or 15 to get her in); walking to the subway (5 minutes); riding the subway (40 minutes); riding the shuttle bus to the hospital (5 minutes, although at first we didn't know about the shuttle bus so we walked for 15 minutes or so); waiting for the appointment (15 minutes depending on how early we arrive, say what you will about Koreans, they never keep you waiting); the actual check-up/vaccination (2 minutes); feeding the baby so that she doesn't fuss on the way back + a diaper change (20 minutes or so); shuttle bus back to the subway (5 minutes); waiting for the subway (10 minutes on average because we are on the train line and not one of the inter-city ones that run every 3 minutes); subway ride home (40 minutes); walk to the apartment (5 minutes). By the time we get home, I am dead dog tired.

Walking to the hospital, we get a good view of Namsan Tower which is one of the most recognizable sites in Seoul. I look like a nerdlinger, and you can't really see the baby or Namsan Tower in this picture though.

I look like this when we get home from an outing.

The hospital visits alone are enough to turn me into an old man, but because of our unique situation, we've had to take care of a few logistical necessities that require the presence of my increasingly fat and drooling daughter. The first step was getting her picture taken so that we could apply for a passport. The problem is, the subject in a valid passport photo is required to have their eyes open. As you could imagine, this was no easy task because, as a newborn, she pops her peepers about as often as I bathe which is only a couple of times a week. When she wouldn't wake up, we had to resort to placing an ice cube on her foot, which was cruel, but also kind of funny to see her reaction.

Trying to get baby Charlie to open her eyes for the passport photo.

To make matters worse, we had a terrible time trying to find a place that takes passport photos. The one place we had been to before in our neighborhood mysteriously closed down, so I ran all over looking for another location while wearing jeans on the hottest day of the year. Of course, the US Embassy, which we went to the next day to apply for her passport and social security number, was much easier to find. However, that trip presented its own unique set of problems. First off, baby was hungry and started fussing beyond my powers of distraction. She absolutely had to be fed and was causing a scene so I talked Sami into feeding her in the waiting area with a blanket covering her. This is something I never would have dreamed of doing about a year ago. I was one of those guys who would get super uncomfortable around a breastfeeding mother and, if I were around certain company, would probably even crack a sick joke. "Hey, I could use a little milk in my coffee come to think of it." But now it's like, all joking aside, this needs to get done and now. From now on, if I see a breastfeeding mother, I will just give her a knowing wink. Actually, no. That is a bad idea. Let's move on.

When she was done eating and I set her on the ground to swaddle her, a young hippie looking guy asked:

"Is she like, hours old?"

I instinctively gave him my best "areyoueffingkiddingme?" look. Aren't we all hours old, you mongoloid Spicolli?

Honestly though, I am pretty sure I can handle everything famously if it weren't for the people on the subway. As I have too often mentioned, being white (or anything non-Korean actually) is kind of like having two mouths. People try not to look, but they can't help themselves. I don't really mind the young girls who giggle and take pictures of our baby with their camera phones, and I don't mind most of the elderly women who touch the baby and smack my hand out of the way to get a better look. What I can't stand are the judgmental old folks who think we are terrible for bringing the baby out of the house (in Korea babies stay isolated with their mothers for 30 days. Tradition trumps science here.) and tell us that we are holding her all wrong. One old guy was convinced that the Moby cradle wrap I had her in was bad for her neck, even though it was perfectly fine and she was sleeping peacefully in the hold like, well, a baby. I smiled and told him that she was fine, but he insisted. It took everything I had not to go Hannibal Lector and take a bite of cheek. See, it would be safer for all involved if I could just drive away.